O’ the morn’s breeze!
You ought to cease,
Coming here.
You’ve nothing to do,
With this corner; forsaken.
When flowers here,
Used to bloom,
And the garden was thriving,
When there was a longing for you,
To pass over here,
You stayed away,
To return in these times,
Unfavorable.
It is but useless for you,
To wander in these alleys,
Flowers don’t exist anymore,
And the garden’s withered,
Since long.
This town’s like a desert,
Just go back!
O’ the morn’s breeze!
You ought to cease,
Coming here.